


Still

by ardaighquartz



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardaighquartz/pseuds/ardaighquartz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any moment now, the leaves will start whipping against the window and rattling him from the outside in like it has since he was a boy. He loses himself to the stillness of being alone; breathing in whiskey vapours and petrichor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earthquakedream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthquakedream/gifts).



The wind is howling outside. Cold rain slams into the windows and dances over darkened lamp-lit streets. The people unfortunate enough to be outside huddle together in the dark under building awnings and in bus stops. They wait. For the storm to end, for loved ones to pick them up, for silence.

The apartment is dark except for a single, dull and yellowed light from the lamp in the living room. Standing in front of the window, Steve watches the way the trees whip around and turn their delicate silver bellies up in mercy. The wind does not soften. The wind does not gentle. He sighs and looks down at the amber whiskey in his glass. Swirling it slowly, he listens to the sound of melted ice clink against the glass. Steve lifts it to his lips, feeling the cold glass stick to his bottom lip as he swallows and pulls the glass away. More ice. Steve moves to the kitchen, shuffling quietly across the hardwood floors, stepping over the one creaky floorboard near the island he's been meaning to fix since he moved in.

 _Whoosh_. The sound of the opening fridge cuts through the silence in his apartment. Clink. Clink. Steve swirls his whiskey again, cooling and watering it down with fresh ice. He closes the freezer door and thunder strikes somewhere in the distance. Lightening flashes and brightens his apartment for a heartbeat and he feels his insides jitter with the shock of electricity. Steve leans against the counter, holding himself with one strong arm, breathing quietly, looking out over his apartment as he idly swirls the whiskey and ice in his glass. His apartment is empty and impersonal save for a few expensive pieces of art, either hanging or sculpted. Some of the art is his own: small, personal pieces he felt proud enough of to find a small frame for. His art hangs in the darker corners of the apartment where they're safe, private and protected from eyes that are not actively searching for them.

His fingers start to get cold. The condensation between the cold glass and his warm skin make his fingertips slip but the glass does not fall from his hand. He closes his eyes and hears the wind whistling through the tree in front of his window, whooshing and cutting over the leaves. Any moment now, the leaves will start whipping against the window and rattling him from the outside in like it has since he was a boy. He loses himself to the stillness of being alone; breathing in whiskey vapours and petrichor.

Knock.

 _Knocknock_.

Frowning, he glances at his watch. It's midnight. There is no reason for anyone to visit him now. Steve sets down his whiskey and makes his way to the— _creeeeak_ —door, hairs on the back of his neck standing up, stomach lurching, blood feeling thick with anticipation. These days, everything unexpected that happens during the precious few moments he spends alone becomes a possible threat.

He peers through the peephole and frowns, breath choking in his throat. His heart thuds to a sickening, lurching stop before thub-wubbing into a quick pace, slamming so hard he swears he feels the organ sticking to his breastbone.

The door opens to a tall figure shadowing the hallway, blocking out the light from the emergency exit. Drip. Dripdrip. Steve's brows pull together and the little baby hairs on his arms stand up slowly. A zing of sensation sparks up his spine, making his ears focus in on the shadowed figure. The man standing at his door looks up. Water drops from his fingertips, from his nose, from the ends of his curled, dark hair, from his long, straight eyelashes.

Steve opens his mouth, and the man falls to his knees. Steve falls with him.

He reaches out, dry fingers skidding over the mask covering the man's mouth and jaw. Steve's fingers push into wet, tangled hair and he smells gunfire. Smoke. Rain. Human dirt. Sweat. The man tilts forward and Steve instinctually reaches his other hand out and instead of meeting flesh, slides over an unyielding metal arm. The metal is cold. Wet. Powerful. _Guilty_. Steve can feel the click-click-whirr of movement somewhere deep in his guts: twisting up and making his heart shudder-stop in his chest and his stomach drop to his toes.

They breathe out at the same time.

The man, once so familiar and now so deeply estranged, falls forward. Instinct work faster than reason, and Steve opens up to him. He slides his arms around torn fabric and leather, cold metal, broken skin. He sucks in a breath and feels two solid arms wrap around his body anywhere they can reach, hands grasping at his shirt, twisting it, pulling it tight. Steve closes his eyes and gathers the man into his body, holding on and steadying him, leaning the mans weight against him. He feels long, brown, unwashed hair push over his cheek, leaving sluggish trails of water to rasp over his two day beard.

There's a moment where everything goes still: the wind slows to a lullaby, the thunder mellows into a warm purr. Steve turns his head and breathes against the man's ear. "I'm here," He says, and he doesn't recognize his own voice. It's too rough. The soldier in his arms gives a great shudder. "Till the end of the line."

 


End file.
